The Malfoy Cookbook
by thevolatileranter
Summary: Because every romance needs some sugar and spice.


_A/N: the author of this story knows absolutely nothing about baking. also, she has always wondered what it would be like to have a British accent._

_disclaimer: credit goes to j.k. rowling (for the fantastic universe) and the pastry affair (for the wonderful recipe)._

* * *

**coconut scones**

* * *

"No" is his answer to everything.

He stands in front of me in the Kitchens, fingers drumming against the counter, silver eyes locked with mine, unwavering. He wears no expression on his face and shows no sign of weakness or of backing down. The Head Boy is the perfect poster child for defiance. I, on the other hand, am at the verge of tearing my hair out.

"How many times do I have to repeat myself, Malfoy? We are going with this schedule," I cry out, taking the parchment out of my pocket and slamming it on the counter.

"And how many times do I have to tell you, Weasley, that it's complete rubbish?" He retorts without even glancing at the schedule in front of him. I tell him that.

"I don't have to look at it," the Slytherin answers. "It's the same schedule as last month."

"We have already been through this. This is the way prefect schedules have been handled for years. Prefects have the same partners throughout the year," I remind him, fighting the urge to strangle him.

"Tradition," Malfoy says, casually leaning against the wall and levitating bags of flour and coconut flakes to the counter. "Your argument is tradition. Even you can do better than that, Weasley."

"My argument was that keeping the same partnerships builds more comfortable relationships between the prefects, which you conveniently ignored," I correct him.

"Yeah, and if they become too comfortable with each other, then they'll get lazy. Changing the partnerships on a monthly basis keeps them on their toes," he argues. "Besides, changing partnerships means that prefects get to interact with more students from other houses, thus increasing inter-house unity."

"Strong relationships are far more effective in increasing 'inter-house unity' than mere acquaintanceships," I retort with a sigh. "Look, Malfoy, the staff wants a schedule _today_. I have wasted most of my dinner break here in the Kitchens with the biggest moron in this school, trying to come to a decision. And instead of working with me, the only things you have accomplished are to make my life harder and to gather ingredients for some bloody coconut pastry."

"Yeah, and the only thing you have managed to accomplish is to sound like a screaming banshee," He says dryly. "And just for the record, I'm baking scones."

"Scones," I repeat.

"Yes, scones. Do you even know what those are, Weasley? You seem to be more of the toast variety – dry, bland, and monotonous."

I roll my eyes, run my hands through my hair, and find him watching me. It used to bother me – the silver gaze, the hard stare – but not anymore. I'm used to it. Just like I'm used to spending hours in the Kitchens amongst golden pots and pans, fielding his insults, throwing in a few of my own, and trying to get something to work.

But most of the time it ends up like this – decidedly undecided.

"You know what your biggest problem is, Weasley?"

And with that, the period of albino apathy comes to an end and transcends into the era of flagrant ferret rage. The thing about Malfoy is that he always seems to be perfectly at ease. It doesn't matter if he's furious or about to go out on a date with the fittest girl in the school or wrestle a bloody hippogriff or completely destroy someone's ego while wearing a cooking apron. He is the embodiment of nonchalance. So whether I want to know what my biggest problem is really isn't the question. The boy will tell me regardless. The real question is how long will I put up with him.

"You can never admit that you're wrong."

He throws 1 cup of all-purpose flour, 1/2 cup of whole wheat flour, some sugar, 2 tablespoons of baking powder, and some salt into a bowl. He starts to chop a block of solid coconut oil. "You always have to be right." _ chop._ "You can't just drop an argument." _chop. chop. _"Every little thing, every damn thing, has to be discussed and reviewed, but most importantly – " _chop._" – your way."

_Stop_.

It never ceases to amaze me how something so small, like prefect schedules, can escalate into this. I don't really understand the point, but it just happens. Sometimes, I throw the first barb and he launches a full attack. Sometimes, he makes a comment that nudges me the wrong way, and I really do turn into a screaming banshee. But no matter who starts it, this is how it always ends – a hate fest.

He mixes the coconut oil into the mixtures along with coconut flakes and coconut milk. Then he begins to stir. When I was little, I always thought that some people were like coconuts – hard on the outside, but underneath the rough exterior, there was some sweetness in them. So I look at the boy in front of me and wonder, _'Where did your sweetness go?'_

It would be so easy to answer back. It would be so easy to tell him that he's just as stubborn and headstrong as I am. He's just as aggravating as I am. He thinks he knows better than I do. He can't walk away from an argument that he hasn't won. The words 'dominating', 'pushy', and 'hypocrite' are etched into his bones, his very being. It sounds so familiar, doesn't it? I can feel my chest tighten and my heart snap. I can feel the words gathering on the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out of my mouth into the open. It would be so damn easy.

But I don't say anything. I bite my lip and swallow the words whole, the acid trailing down my insides. And that's when it finally occurs to me of how I tired I am. I'm so tired of this – this same, old routine, this game that we play. I'm tired of throwing the same insults, hurling the same words, and listening to my burning arguments and his icy retorts. I'm tired of his stupid blond hair and the way he runs his hands through it in frustration. I'm tired of his mercury eyes and the way they look so tired too. I'm tired of him. I'm tired of who I become whenever I'm with him. I'm tired of _us._

"Get off your high horse, Weasley."

He's still stirring.

"You're just as arrogant, idiotic, and fucked up as the rest of us. So why don't you just stop wasting your precious dinner break and leave?"

_Just stop._

I don't know. I don't know why I can't leave and let him be. I don't know why he can't leave and let me be. I don't know why we fall into the same trap every time. Maybe it's because I'm Rose Weasley, and he's Scorpius Malfoy, and this is what we do. We disagree, we argue, and then we criticize, criticize, criticize. And I'm tired of wondering why we have to be this way. And for that very reason, I take his advice and say, "Fine."

His gray eyes flicker. I conjure up the prefect schedule, or rather, _his _version of the prefect schedule and set it on the counter. "Have it your way," I tell him – cold, concise, and perfectly nonchalant. "Look it over and turn it into Professor Longbottom when you're done."

Without sparing him a second glance, I walk away, leaving him alone with the house elves.

He stops stirring and calls out after me, "Weasley, wait." And for the first time, there's something present in his voice that isn't nonchalance or anger. "Wait, Weasley! _Stop!_"

I don't stop.

* * *

Albus Potter doesn't know why he's outside.

The sky is a dull, dishwater gray with some flecks of blue. It's not raining, but the air is still a bit too humid for his liking. The grounds are deserted, save a handful of first years sitting twenty-five meters away. He doesn't like it at all, but he's still out here.

He sits on the grass, a notebook and quill in each hand. He wants to write something – a story, a poem, a sentence, anything – but nothing comes. He's about to close his eyes and think, but then he notices a head full of blonde curls from the corner of his eye.

The girl – Felicity Clearwater – is laughing. She's sitting with someone under a tree. Once upon a time (a long, long time ago), it would be Albus and Felicity sitting under that tree. They would find a spot and talk about anything and everything. She would laugh then too. He shuts his eyes and tries to push those memories out. He can't though.

The raven haired boy grabs his belongings and goes inside – her laughter still ringing in his ears.

* * *

(2 hours later)

"_Shit," _I hiss under my breath, hands clawing through my backpack, "Where the hell did I put that book?!"

I'm sitting on my bed in Gryffindor Tower, trying to work on a potions essay (in other words, distracting myself from today's earlier events). Unfortunately, my potions book appears to have vanished. I'm about to go find Albus, so I can borrow his when it finally hits me. I left it in my office, or more specifically, the office I have to share with Malfoy. "_Shit._" Seriously, of all the places in this goddamn castle?_ "Shit. Shit. Shit."_

And then I stop and begin to wonder why that even bothers me in the first place. I'm not going to let some bloody Albino stop me from retrieving my textbook. I am Rose Weasley, a strong and capable seventeen year old witch, who will never feel threatened by a male who uses more hair products than she does.

I keep giving myself pep talks from the Portrait Hole all the way to my office. My stomach feels hollow since I skipped dinner to go meet Malfoy in the Kitchens and even while I was there, I didn't eat anything. I can hear my stomach growling, which channels another series of pep talks. Rose Weasley skipping dinner because of the Ferret? _How preposterous!_ I open the door to my office. _Simply ridiculous._ The door swings open. _Utterly _–

I am greeted by the scent of coconut. _Delicious_. All the way across the room, on the center of my desk, lies a platter of scones. The sweet aroma clings to my skin and draws me towards the plate. The light coconut glaze makes them look so enticing, so fresh, so moist, so _Malfoy_.

Wait, what?  
_Malfoy?_

And once again, the realization hits me: Malfoy.

No, no, no, no, no, no.

_Yes, scones. Do you even know what those are, Weasley? You seem to be more of the toast variety – dry, bland, and monotonous._

I groan. Malfoy mixed the milk and sugar and flour. Malfoy chopped up the coconut oil. Malfoy added the coconut milk and kept stirring and stirring and stirring. Malfoy made these scones.

So this is the Albino's form of retaliation. Yes, let's put the giant plate of mouthwatering, but more importantly, untouchable scones right in front of the girl who hasn't had dinner. Yes, because _that _doesn't make you a heartless bastard. He knew perfectly well that I would never eat these. I mean, come on, they're _his _scones. I bet he poisoned them or something. I notice a piece of parchment sitting right next to the plate. I pick it up and immediately recognize the blonde git's immaculate print.

_'Longbottom approved. We still have to patrol together—SM_

_P.S. I know you skipped dinner to go to the Kitchens, so eat these. I only put a warming charm on them, so they're perfectly safe. I know what you're thinking, Weasley. Don't let your pride win against your hunger.'_

And maybe it's because I have been driven to the brink of starvation or maybe it's because I am a masochist, but for the second time today, I take his advice along with the first bite. And maybe – just _maybe_ – he is more like a coconut than I had imagined.

* * *

_A/N: hello everyone, this is my very first chapter of my very fanfic, so any advice/constructive criticism/feedback/reviews would be lovely._

_cheers._


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